I’m not dying nor on death row. My last meal is something I’ve occasionally thought of, especially while enjoying favorite foods or dining at a fabulous restaurant. Or I’ll see a beautiful meal on a food blog and think, “That could easily be my last meal!”
It’s not a morbid thing in my mind. My last meal is a happy, celebratory thing, because if I could plan my last meal, then I’d also have the ability to eat and drink like there’s no tomorrow, cause there wouldn’t be. It would be a day-long meal of happy eating and drinking.
Upon rising, I would enjoy coffee, as I have for decades. My day never starts without espresso. Maybe with a croissant with butter and seedless raspberry jam.
Two perfectly-cooked soft-boiled eggs.
Chicago pizza. From Giardano’s, cause they deliver.
Next would be warm, boiled, fresh potatoes with unsalted butter and slices of Fontina or Taleggio or Morbier. Or all three.
Then mimosas with my two daughters.
An everything bagel with lox and cream cheese. And I’d eat the whole bagel.
A baked Brie with a cherry chutney, and good bread.
I’d stop for some fresh spring radishes spread with unsalted butter and coarse salt.
Lasagna. No, make that pastitsio. Or both.
I’m not big on sandwiches, but my last day-long meal would have to include a BLT. Good uncured bacon, garden-fresh summer tomatoes, and lettuce.
Chips with fresh salsa, spicy queso, and guacamole. And a Pacifico.
Paté. My mother’s recipe. Or foie gras, medium-rare, served on grilled bread.
Pasta Trapanese. Or maybe Puttanesca. Let me think. With a favorite pinot noir.
There would have to be a full raclette spread, with at least 6 friends.
Fire-grilled octopus. Maybe mixed with other fire-grilled seafood, but lots of octopus. And squid.
Then my husband’s burger, made by him, served on a brioche bun, toasted with butter. With lots of ketchup and mustard. Eaten with my husband.
A glass of Sauternes.
Roasted chicken, just out of the oven, cooked to perfection. I will eat it right out of the roasting pan.
Dim sum. All of it. Except chicken feet.
Last but definitely not least – a cheese platter, with all of my favorites old and new.
I’m not a big dessert eater, but I do love ice cream. I’d eat so much of it that I’d need a blanket to warm myself up!
And there would be lots of port. Or sherry. Or both.
So all of this is unlikely to happen, but maybe the point is, we can enjoy our meals like they are our last meals? Each and every one? Not to the point of gluttony, of course, 😬
The French have it figured out. Aperitif. Long lunches. Fabulous food. Wine. Hors D’oeuvres. Dinner. Often with friends. Definitely with family. Dessert. Dégustation.
A croissant or crème caramel isn’t viewed by the French as calories or with guilt, unlike us Americans. It’s about enjoyment and moderation. My mother, at age 92, still enjoys chocolate every day, and a cookie.
Let’s enjoy our meals. You never know – one will be our last.